Chapter 14
Monday morning roused Sunday’s sinners with sharp raps to the door.
Abby knocked first, troubling for news on Rainey. She told us she was going to the Feed to work on the curtain material for Mrs. Parker. She’d be sewing there all day and would we tell Rainey if he came home? Before Abby left, she asked Gunnar to write down the name of the hospital Rainey went to, and the number for the State Police.
A few minutes later, I watched the sheriff drive by, heading toward the Crocketts’. Twenty minutes passed and Sheriff pulled up to our house. I was halfway out the door when Gunnar snatched me back inside. Worried about Rainey, I stayed shadowed behind the screen and listened to the men.
Sheriff got out of his automobile, rested his foot on the porch step, and told Gunnar, “Thought we’d let ya know, we found Carter Crockett late last night. He’d set up camp in the brush alongside Devils Bone, and ’bout a quarter mile downstream we found him.”
Sheriff hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Tucked away back there behind your line on the other side of Devils Bone, he was. Seems he was holing up in an old pup tent. And somehow the boy set it afire . . . I guess he was trying to keep himself dry from all this rain we’ve had.” He shook his head. “That damn tent went up like tissue paper. Hardly nothing left but the metal snaps.”
Relieved Rainey didn’t meet trouble, my thoughts turned to Carter.
Sheriff went on to say, “Me and Deputy figured during it all, he was trying to escape the tent and fell down the bank and busted his head on rock—drowned in them rushing waters.”
Carter . . . drowned. I pressed a hand over my dropped jaw.
The deputy broke in. “We found more than one set of muddy footprints around that camp. Looks like his kin was helping him hide out from the warrant, probably giving him food and all, though Beau Crockett—all of ’em—is keeping it zipped.”
Gunnar shook his head, uttered, “Good Lord.”
“Uh-huh. Crockett buried his boy this morning.” Sheriff grimaced.
Surprised, a tear escaped from the corner of my eye. When I was seven and Carter was eleven, I’d fallen, scraping my knee on a sharp rock in the backfield along Devils Bone Creek. Hearing my screams across the fields, Carter came running. He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt and used it to make a bandage for me. Then he walked me back to my house, careful to go real slow. Instead of thanking Carter, Gunnar’d just lopped off one of his killing looks and scolded him for trespassing.
I hoped Gunnar would show some sort of forgiveness for Carter’s passing, especially after yesterday’s sermon. But he just rolled his shoulders and mumbled something that sounded mean and cursing.
I wondered about my daddy, what he would’ve said, him with those kind eyes in the photograph.
I wished Rainey was home, and I missed Henny, too. I patted the new seeds saved in my dress pocket that I was waiting to give her. I could never stay mad at her too long, easily forgiving her, and frankly I knew she was going to need me after Carter’s death.
Forgiveness. Carter. Carter before the devil took away the good soul he was born with.
When Gunnar came into the kitchen and took his seat, I toasted his bread, and asked quietly, “Should I make a pie for the Crocketts?”
“No.” He snapped up his newspaper, flicked open a page.
“But—”
“No.” He whacked the paper down on the table.
“A dish maybe?”
“Dammit,” he boomed, “you stay clear of biting snakes.”
I slapped the plate of toast down in front of him, muttering I wished I could.
Gunnar ate and read his newspaper. I tried to nibble on my toast, but let it grow cold, my appetite lost on Carter and his family. And I was trying to think up a million reasons to talk to Henny—to find an excuse to go up to Stump Mountain, when Gunnar said, “Since Rainey’s still gone, go get Henny and bring her up to the tobacco to work. Need to dust those plants.”
I jumped up from the table and Gunnar latched on to my arm and pulled me back down to finish my breakfast. When I was done, he pointed to the broom for me to sweep the floor. After I started to pour him a third cup of coffee, he shoved me off to go.
I ran out the door not bothering to grab my shoes, even though Gunnar would have a fit if he saw me running around barefoot. More than anything I needed to feel this last lingering of summer—life—alive—and the living slapping at my feet, pounding up to a beating heart.
The damp grass was cool and sweetly scented. Under a bright blue sky, I spotted blooms and stopped to pick a bouquet of field daisies, bishop weed, and foxglove. When I had a handful, I cut over to the Crocketts’, following the creek, inhaling the breeze-soaked wind, lighting through the switchgrass and green-legged Sweet William.
Sneaking behind the cabin to their small family cemetery, I stopped under dark pines to catch my breath. I spied the fresh dirt amongst the half-dozen scattered graves buried in hollow earth, and stepped carefully over to Carter’s burial spot and placed the flowers atop the loose grave dirt.
Looking over my shoulder, shaking, I tried to collect a prayer. If Gunnar caught me, he’d kill me; if the Crocketts caught me, I’d be deader.
I kneeled down, and breathed out, “God, if You’re in Nameless, please bring Carter to Your home. Let him be with his mama and . . . not be mean anymore.” I stumbled through strings of Psalm 23, scattering the words upward. I couldn’t help adding a plea to Him for my swift leave of Nameless.
Overhead, a crow barked a warning. I rearranged the colorful blooms, dragged my fingers through the raw dirt, and patted softly. “For all your dreams—secrets—and prayers, Carter. I hope you have them now.”
I dusted the clay off my dress and dashed back across the field to the foot of Stump Mountain.
Breathless, I trudged up the hill, keeping on the narrow, balded trail and jumping across the ruts.
At the first switchback, Ada Stump marched by, her blond hair blowing over a pale face, feet pounding the mud trail. I looked over my shoulder, and Ada peered back over hers. Stopping on the path, she struck one of her matches and flicked it my way. I stumbled over a stone, stubbing my toe, and cursed her heartily.
“Ada Stump . . . Dammit, Ada.” I caught back up with her. “Give ’em here, or I’m going to light your tail real good.” I held out my hand.
Ada clutched the matches to her chest. I grabbed her by the wrist and pried the matches away. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
She tried to snatch them back. Then I noticed her swollen lip and black eye. A front tooth was cracked.
I jerked her wrist and held on to her. “Who did this, Ada?”
Ada screwed up her tiny face. “My matches . . . Mine . . . Gimme my matches,” she hissed.
“Does it hurt? C’mon, I’m taking you home to your mama.” I tugged on her.
“No.” She shrank. “I ain’t going back in there. I ain’t.”
“I’m taking you home, Ada Stump.”
“I want MY matches.” She slapped at my arm.
“Stop—”
“No! It’s . . . it’s too dark.”
“Dark? What are you talking about, Ada?”
“Matches . . . give ’em here.” She clawed while trying to wiggle out of my grip.
“Stop it, you need to go home.”
“The shed!” she spit. “Shed . . .”
“Let’s go.”
“Pa . . . he-he locks me in there—in the shed!”
“Shed . . . You’re lying,” I said, refusing to believe, but narrowing my eyes, remembering Baby Jane’s lost words “lock me away up there . . . like Sis.”
“Ain’t a’lying . . . ain’t.” Angry tears leaked out of her dark eyes. Then she lowered her mouth to my hand and clamped down.
I shrieked and jerked away, shaking my wound. I dropped the matches.
Ada scrambled to snatch them up and then lit off into the woods.
Damn kid. “Ada Stump, you’re gonna burn down the mountain, you don’t stop,” I hollered after her, blowing on my injury.